The clerk stood next to her. “That's it! That's the notebook he carried with him.”
She picked up the book. In the light she could see its faded title. It was a poetry book by Robert Burns. Jo thought about John’s discovery earlier in the evening that Billy’s tattoo was a quote from the famous Scottish poet.
She opened it to the front page. “It’s inscribed to William MacGregor, from his grandfather. It says: Never forget where you came from.”
Jo could feel Frisco looking over her shoulder. “Why would MacGregor keep his own book here?”
She murmured, “Good question.” Jo thumbed through a few pages and gasped. There was a crudely hollowed out hole in the body of the book, and inside she discovered a thumb drive.
Frisco said, “Holy shit.”
Before he could say anything more, Jo closed up the book and looked at Paul. “We will need to take these with us, for evidence. Since these items clearly don't belong to the store, I am sure you won't have a problem with that.”
“No, no, of course not.” Paul looked flustered.
She continued, “We appreciate your cooperation. I hope you can understand how important it is you don’t mention this to anyone else.”
Paul’s bow-tie bobbed with his Adam’s apple as he swallowed and then nodded vigorously. “Won’t tell a soul. I promise.”
Jo tucked the notebook, thumb drive and poetry book in her bag. They walked back upstairs, Jo feeling a bit dazed. When they reached their cars, Jo said, “We need to look at this tonight. Do you want to head back to my house?”
Frisco said, “Why don’t we head over to mine? I’m only a few miles from here.” He hesitated and tilted his head, as if studying her. “But, Jo. You’re pregnant and it’s late. You should rest. Why don’t I take a look at this and we can re-group in the morning.”
Jo looked him in the eye. “Frisco, I appreciate your concern.” She lightly punched his arm. “But if you ever suggest to me again I should pull back on our investigation because I’m going to have a baby, I’ll look for a new partner in the St. Paul PD.”
Frisco chuckled. “Fair enough. Follow me to the house. I’ll fire up a pot of coffee for me and pour a glass of milk for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
St. Paul, Minnesota
February
CHIP STOOD IN THE ULTRA-LUXURIOUS Ordway Suite at the Saint Paul Hotel as FBI Agent Sam Harden adjusted a Kevlar vest around his upper body. “Not too comfy, but I don’t care as long as it does the job,” said Chip.
“Oh, it’ll do the job. This is a ProMax Premium concealable full-vest, covers the front, back and sides. It has both stab and ballistic protection. No one will know you have it on underneath the custom-made tux you’ll be wearing.”
Chip’s cell phone rang out. “It’s Jane, am I allowed to answer it?”
“Sure, go ahead. I have to test your wire before we put it on you.”
Chip pressed talk. “Jane, how is Captiva?”
“You won’t believe this place, Chip. It’s like paradise inside of Fort Knox. There’s a private beach and a pool. The kids went shelling this afternoon and brought back the most amazing collection. I can’t wait for this to be over and for you to join us. How are you holding up?”
Chip looked at himself in the ornately-framed bedroom mirror and grimaced. “Fine. The FBI has all the luxury suites in the hotel booked. I’m in one and Maureen Finnegan is in another. There are cops at every elevator and stairway. I’m feeling pretty safe at this point.”
Chip wondered if Jane could hear this falsehood through his voice. He was having trouble breathing normally and felt claustrophobic. Wearing the heavy, confining vest was like being tightly wrapped with duct tape. There was no flexibility in it. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.
“Guess what? Lots of celebrities are expected to show up tonight, including the comedian Bill Murray. Seems Finnegan was a huge fan of the St. Paul Saints, and Murray’s part-owner of the baseball team. He has the title of Team Psychologist. Isn’t that a hoot?”
“Cool. What happens next, dear?” asked Jane.
Chip consulted the detailed timetable he had been given. “A cocktail reception, followed by a sit-down dinner. Under any other circumstances, this would be quite the affair.”
“Stay calm Chip. Think about drinking Pina Coladas with me by the infinity pool tomorrow evening. Good luck. Love you more than you can ever know,” she said with a catch in her voice.
Feeling choked up with tears gathering at the back of his throat, Chip responded with his love and said good bye.
***
Chip could feel Maureen’s tension as she gripped his arm. She was dressed in a long, black silk dress. Despite her make-up, she looked weary. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed the ordeal she had been going through since Patrick’s death.
“How can I every repay you, thank you enough,” she whispered as they prepared to enter the cocktail reception. “You’re my hero tonight.”
She opened her evening bag and removed a rosary and slipped it into the pocket of Chip’s tuxedo jacket. “If you don’t mind, just for tonight. It was my grandmother’s rosary. When she was worried, she always made me take it along with me.”
The room was elegant. Tall pub tables, beautifully draped with white linens, were scattered around the room. The crystal chandeliers reflected off the mirrored walls and soft music was playing behind the chatter of formally-dressed guests.
Maureen and Chip merged into the crowd, stopping to greet guests, offer introductions and accept tall flutes of bubby wine and canapés from roving waiters dressed in white jackets.
“Chip, this is St. Paul Mayor Chris Coleman,” Maureen said as she introduced a good-looking, ruddy-faced man. ”And this is Dr. Julie Sullivan, the president of Patrick’s alma mater, the University of St. Thomas.”
Chip was enjoying himself. “I see the Irish are out in full force tonight. It’s an honor to meet both of you. Thanks so much for coming.”
All of a sudden he was aware of Franco’s voice in his ear. “Waiter with a towel over his arm approaching Chip from the back. Nab him.” He felt a sharp, intense pain in the middle of his back, like being hit with a baseball bat. The force propelled him forward into the mayor, landing them both on the floor.
Two FBI agents swooped in and grabbed the waiter. Bending his arms behind him, they wrestled him down onto the floor. A gun flew out of the waiter’s hand and skittered across the floor. The man struggled to break free, but was no match for the two agents, who dragged him into the hallway leading to the kitchen, his trailing feet kicking. It happened so fast that many guests were unaware of the fuss.
Franco appeared beside Chip and helped him stand. “You okay?”
“I think so. What happened?” He felt dazed and confused. His back was throbbing.
Franco located the gun and directed a police officer to retrieve and bag it. In a loud voice he said, “Just a little mishap here folks, we have everything under control. Please step back and clear this room as quickly as possible. Proceed into the ballroom for your dinner.”
Officers began to secure the area, as Franco propelled Chip through the gathering crowd and into the same hallway where the cuffed shooter was being read his rights.
Franco briefly consulted with Sam Harden and then escorted Chip down another hallway to an employee bathroom. They could hear the cuffed man yelling and swearing, his voice echoing down the hallway as he was hauled away.
“We’ll have a doc here shortly to take a look at you. Make sure you’re not injured too badly. The shooter is on his way out of here with the SPPD team,” said Franco
Chip felt faint and slid down onto the cold bathroom floor “I don’t understand. How did you know the guy was coming at me with a gun? Who is he? Is it Hal? Is it Finnegan’s killer?”
“Whoa, take a deep breath and calm yourself. The guy’s facial hair threw me off for a second, but I was sure I recognized him. He wasn’t carrying a tray and the towe
l over his arm looked unnatural. Something in my gut told me he was trouble. I didn’t see the gun under the towel. It had a silencer. That’s why no one heard the shot.”
“But who is he?” asked Chip in a shaky voice. “I’m still confused.”
“The guy is a local bad boy. I knew I had seen him before. We tried to pin a homicide on him two years ago, but we couldn’t make it stick. A big-time lawyer got him off on a technicality. Sloppy police work, I’m afraid.”
“So, did he kill Finnegan?”
“Maybe, maybe not. My guess is he was hired to kill you. I bet he thought he could do the job and walk out the kitchen door in all the commotion.”
“Do you think Hal hired him?”
“No, not Hal, but I have a strong suspicion of who did.”
A doctor arrived and Chip took off his jacket and shirt. Sam entered the bathroom and removed the Kevlar vest and pulled a bullet out of the back, placing it in an evidence bag.
“You’re going to have a painful bruise for a couple of days, but it looks like that vest did its job,” said the doctor.
“I thought this vest would protect me from injury. This hurts like hell.”
“A bullet can’t penetrate this vest,” explained Sam. “The ceramic lining stops the bullet, but its impact can still pack quite a wallop. Busted one of my ribs once.”
“You think you can go back and join Maureen at the dinner?” asked Franco. “We haven’t spotted Hal, but he could still make a move tonight. One down, one to go.”
“What the hell, it couldn’t be any worse than this. All I’ve had to eat today is a lousy bacon-wrapped date and a bruschetta with lox, but I don’t think I could eat a thing right now.”
***
Chip was right. The bloody prime rib on his plate made him nauseous. He sat beside Maureen at the head table scanning the diners for Hal and watching police officers check everyone entering or leaving the ballroom.
At the end of the evening Sam escorted him back to the suite. “No Hal,” Chip said. “You know, I don’t know whether to be relieved or pissed that we went through all of this and still don’t know where in the hell he is.”
***
The next morning the whole team, including Chip and Maureen, were gathered in the Lowry Suite for a debriefing led by Agent Masterson. A lavish continental breakfast was laid out on the bar and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room.
“First I want to thank all of you for your hard work and cooperation. Hal Swanson was a no-show, so unfortunately we do not know any more than we did before about his whereabouts or intentions. But, I want to assure you all we won’t stop searching for him.”
She paused and took a sip of coffee. “Franco do you want to give us a run-down on your perp.”
“His name, at least the one he is currently using, is Dwayne Moore. He’s got a record that is the envy of criminals state-wide, mainly because he uncannily seems to avoid any harsh sentences. He has friends in very high, very influential places.”
Franco took a bite of his bagel with cream cheese and a quick sip of coffee. “He could be involved in something Finnegan was researching or he could merely be the hired hit-man. The latter is my best guess. He always seems to be represented by high profile lawyers, and I heard this morning he already has one of the best.”
“Let’s pack up and get out of there,” said Masterson. “Chip has a charter plane to catch at Holman Field, and Maureen wants to get back to her children.”
Maureen stood clutching her hands. “I’m full of gratitude for all of you and all your efforts, especially to you, Chip. You took a huge risk for me and my children. The money raised last night was staggering. It will be more than enough to pay for Abby and Sean’s college tuitions.”
Chip stood and gave her a warm embrace. He placed her rosary in the palm of her hand and closed it with a squeeze. “Back at you,
Maureen. May it continue to protect you.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Head Shot
St. Paul, MN
Early November
DR. JOHN GOODMAN TOSSED in his bed. It was almost midnight, and for a man who seldom had a hard time falling asleep, he couldn’t seem to get his mind to shut down.
He flipped over on his back and his thoughts shifted to the phone call he had received earlier in the evening, soon after Jo and Frisco had left for the bookstore. The president of the University of Minnesota had called him personally to formally invite him to interview for the position of Medical School Dean and Vice President for Health Services. The interview was set for the following day, and he would be meeting with not only the president, but also with several board members
The university’s president had been clear in expressing his interest in John for the spot. Even though they hadn’t interviewed him yet, he said they considered him their top candidate. His experience as a world-renowned neurosurgeon, as well as a lecturer, had gotten their attention. Recent headlines touting the success with Rick Wilson’s surgery had also been noted.
John was torn. He was passionate about his work as a neurosurgeon and couldn’t imagine the day when he would no longer perform that role. However, in light of Jo’s pregnancy, his priorities needed to change. True, the job would require long hours and some travel, mainly because he would be representing the university’s medical school, with all the fundraising that entailed. However, the hours would be regular, with no more middle-of-the night emergency surgeries. Given Jo’s frenetic schedule – tonight being no exception – one of them needed a reasonable schedule.
Less than a year ago, he would never have considered the position at the university. However, after he made the decision to move to Minneapolis to work out his relationship with Jo, the things that were most important in his world had shifted.
The job opportunity did appeal to John. As the dean, he would have great influence on building an already well-respected program into a world-class one. He could direct research that would further progress in neurosurgery, along with other medical sciences.
He turned his pillow over, finding a cool side. He wished Jo was home to talk to about their future. Switching careers was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to all the changes in store for the two of them.
John smiled when he thought about the life growing inside Jo, the life they had created together. Jo and the baby were the most important people in his life.
His first priority was to marry Jo. To accomplish that, he needed to have her home for more than twenty-four hours.
***
Jo Schwann looked up from Billy MacGregor’s notebook and rubbed her tired eyes. It was past one in the morning, and the long hours of reading were taking their toll. She stood up from the couch in Frisco’s basement and walked over to the detective, looking over his shoulder as he went through the documentary footage on his laptop. He had plugged in headphones, allowing Jo to focus on reading. On the screen, she watched as Rick Wilson interviewed a woman in her kitchen.
Jo tapped Frisco on the shoulder. When he removed the headphones, she said, “Find anything?”
Frisco paused the film and shook his head. “Lots on the dangers of water contamination from fracking, but nothing that would have pointed a loaded gun at Rick Wilson.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the notebook she held in her hand. “Glad you can read that chicken scratch of his; I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Did you find anything yet?”
Jo frowned. “Same as you. Wellborne Industries seems to
be skirting the edge of the law, but nothing so far that would make Rick and Billy murder targets.”
Frisco stood up and stretched. He rubbed his tired-looking eyes with a meaty fist. “All this movie watching is making me hungry for popcorn. Want some?”
Jo’s midsection grumbled at the mention of food. Lately, it seemed as if her stomach alternated between feeling queasy and famished. “Sounds great. Thanks.”
As the detective climbed the steps up to the kitchen, Jo settled back
on the couch and began to read the notebook again. She read for a few minutes and then sat up suddenly, her tiredness disappearing in her excitement.
She was re-reading the passage a second time when Frisco clumped down the steps, arms full of two large bowls of popcorn. “Hope you’re hungry….” He placed a bowl on the coffee table in front of Jo. “Did you find something? You look like you just won the lottery.”
Jo looked up. “Listen to this.” She began to read Billy’s words out loud.
Mazlo practically had a hard-on when he read the actual water contamination reports we got from Trevor Wallace. After he finished reading, he told us, “I’ve got the bastard now.”
When Rick asked the professor what group of feds we were going to go to first, Mazlo looked at him funny and then locked the reports in his desk drawer. Instead of answering Rick’s question, he said, “I’ll handle this from here. You boys did a great job and I’ll see you get an ‘A’ this semester.”
The smug asshole couldn’t see that Rick didn’t care about grades any more. We were into it. We were going to take on The Man. Rick argued with him, but Mazlo’s voice went ice cold when he said, “I want all the documentary footage you’ve got. Don’t forget the copies. I want it all.”
Well, that pissed off Rick. We decided there and then to bug the guy’s office. No way was he going to steal our thunder. Rick sweet-talked Mazlo’s secretary into letting us into his office again and we put a voice-activated recorder in the cabinet next to his desk.
Jo looked up from reading. “Frisco, did you happen to find any audio files on the flash drive we recovered from Subtext?”
Frisco went back to his laptop and brought up a file. “This is the only one I haven’t looked at yet. Let’s see what’s on it.”
He brought the laptop over to Jo and pushed aside the bowl of popcorn. “Looks like an audio file. Maybe this is it.”
The detective unplugged the earphones and turned up the volume. They listened for a few minutes. At first, the only conversations were mundane discussions between Mazlo and his secretary, Amanda.
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Page 19